comets of ice


Looking for words in a Fool’s Paradise. A bush full of thorns that I choose to call roses. It’s as arbitrary as a drunk sailor in a rain forest.

Mixed metaphors. Confused intentions. The hounds of hell barking up the wrong tree, the coon escaping downstream in the creek.

High in the night sky, comets of ice. Come join us, they whisper, and swoop away again.

There’s no room left for discussion. No advice to seek out. I carry this puzzle in my pocket like a worry stone that longs to be skipped over water.

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